Although the photo had definitely been taken from here or somewhere around here, she felt sure it had to be further down the hillside. The other thing was that although her dreams definitely involved this view, they also included a rose garden and a wooden bench. Although neither of these things were shown on the postcard, over the years, her mental image of her special place had evolved to include them.
However hard she told herself that this was probably just the product of her imagination and there was no reason to believe such a place existed in reality, part of her still felt convinced it did. Up here, looking round over the broad expanse of Piazzale Michelangelo, with its stone slabs, hordes of tourists and street traders, there wasn’t anything remotely resembling a rose garden.
Her musings were interrupted by Alice tugging urgently at her arm. ‘Look, Debs, over there to the left. Down below, can you see? There’s another terrace with what look like rose bushes. Could that be it?’
Debbie followed Alice’s pointing finger and felt fresh hope spring up inside her. Yes, down below the piazza, reached by a wide stone stairway, was what looked like a garden. She couldn’t see a wooden bench, but she felt sure this had to be the place. She paused long enough to take a number of photographs and then almost ran across to the steps and down to the lower level, followed by Alice. As they descended the steep flight of steps – now more slowly and carefully – they both began to get a fuller view of this lower terrace.
‘They’re definitely roses, Debs, along with all sorts of other flowers. Do you think this is it?’
Debbie stopped as they reached the foot of the steps and took a good look round. This terrace was a lot smaller than the piazza above and a well-trimmed hedge bordered the left side of it. She immediately saw that this area also contained a bar, built into the hillside. Tables with smart red and white tablecloths ran down the right-hand side, most of them taken by tourists relaxing as the sun began to set. The umbrellas provided shade that was very welcome, even though the shadows were lengthening. In the middle was a raised garden with a patch of neatly mown lawn and a variety of plants and bushes, among them white and pink roses. Ahead of them was the viewing area and Debbie hurried across to the edge.
She leant on the railings and looked down, reaching for her phone to take some photos. The view was almost identical to the panorama from above but, gradually, as she stared and stared, she began to realise that this still didn’t feel right. The view was just like the postcard, but the feeling she got – what Alice had called the “vibe” – wasn’t right. Her special place was smaller, more private and more personal, and she felt sure it didn’t contain a bar or tables. Somehow she just knew this wasn’t it. She gave a little snort of frustration.
‘This isn’t it, Al. It just isn’t.’ Her voice echoed her frustration and Alice was quick to come up with a solution – at least a temporary one.
‘There’s an empty table over there. Come on. I’ll buy you a drink.’
‘It’ll cost a fortune up here.’
‘We’re on holiday, Debs. Come on. My treat.’
‘Do we buy drinks at the bar or do we sit down?’
‘I can’t see a bar, so let’s sit down and see.’
Debbie let herself be led across to a table, slid the surprisingly heavy iron chair back and slumped down in the shade of the umbrella alongside Alice.
‘Bugger!’
‘You sure this isn’t your place?’
Debbie nodded wearily. ‘Afraid not. It’s just too big, too different.’
At that moment a waiter appeared. Without consulting Debbie, Alice raised two fingers. ‘Could we have two glasses of Prosecco please?’
Debbie was about to translate when she saw him nod and heard him reply in pretty good English. ‘Two glasses of Prosecco. Of course.’ He gave them both a smile and turned away. The penny was beginning to drop in Debbie’s head that Pierluigi had been right when he had said that knowledge of English was essential to almost anybody working here in Florence, seeing as it was full of visitors from all over the globe.
‘Debs…’ Alice sounded a bit hesitant. ‘It is only a dream, after all, isn’t it? You’ve probably just imagined it, sort of built up an image in your head that isn’t reflected on the ground. Besides, things change over the years, after all.’
Debbie nodded. ‘I suppose I’m coming round to thinking you’re right, Al.’ She did her best to sound positive. ‘Ah, well, at least we’re here and we’ve found where the photo was taken from. Maybe this spot’ll grow on me.’
The wine arrived with a little ticket, indicating that these two small glasses came to a total of fourteen euros. Alice reached for her purse, but the smiling waiter waved it away ‘Later, later.’
Debbie looked across at her. ‘Getting drunk here could be an expensive business.’
‘We’re on holiday. Relax.’
They took their time over their wine, feeding pieces of the accompanying crisps to a fearless little sparrow who returned time and time again to their table and departed with morsels in her beak, no doubt to feed her family. It was past seven o’clock and the sun approaching the horizon when they decided to head off again. Debbie called the waiter and Alice paid. As they were about to leave, the waiter indicated that they should take their receipt with them. Debbie had been reading about this before coming away. Anti-tax-fraud laws introduced a few years previously demanded that every transaction be accompanied by a receipt. She wondered how effective this was proving.
As their bus tickets were valid for an hour and a half from first use, they decided to take the bus back down into the town again rather than walk. It was almost dark by now and by the time the bus deposited them back at the station, all the street lights were on, even though the sky was still a royal blue colour and birds were still wheeling about in the clear evening air.
‘What about something to eat, Debs? I’m starving.’
For the first time Debbie realised she was really rather hungry. Lunch had been a bag of crisps on the plane, so something more substantial seemed like a good idea. Food would also cheer her up. The disappointment of not seeing Pierluigi and now not finding her special spot had been weighing heavily on her, in spite of the indisputable pleasure of finally visiting the city of her dreams.
‘Definitely. What do you fancy?’
‘Seeing as we’re in Italy, shouldn’t we have pasta, or a pizza?’
‘Sounds good to me. I tell you what, let’s head away from the old centre of town where all the tourists are, and see if we can find somewhere genuino. My teacher said that’s what the Italians call The Real McCoy, whether it’s food or drink or whatever.’
They walked for about fifteen minutes until they found themselves at Porta al Prato. Almost on the corner, they spotted a trattoria that looked as if it might fit the bill. There was no sign of pizza on the menu outside, but the prices were a bit lower than those down by the station, so they decided to try it.
It turned out to be an excellent choice. The restaurant wasn’t big, made up as it was of a series of smallish rooms, with just three or four tables in each, but it had high ceilings and it was cool in there. As they walked in, they passed a glass cabinet full of dishes containing the night’s specialities, from stuffed tomatoes to octopus salad, along with a number of plates the contents of which Debbie just couldn’t identify. It all definitely looked distinctly genuino.
The local speciality here in Florence appeared to be massive steaks, some almost the size of a dustbin lid, with eye-watering prices. Instead, they opted for a plate of mixed ham and salami to share as a starter, followed by spaghetti for Alice, who stuck to her original decision to have pasta. Debbie fancied some fish and, on the waiter’s advice, opted for a plate of fried prawns and squid in a very light batter, accompanied by a green salad.
The antipasti platter arrived without delay and they were both very pleased they had opted to share a single portion between the two of them. It was absolutely huge. There was freshly sliced ham �
�� both cooked and raw, salami-flavoured with fennel, smaller salamini that the waiter revealed as wild boar, and crostini – slices of toasted bread rubbed with garlic and sprinkled with wonderful green olive oil. It was delicious, as was their main course. They drank mineral water and a carafe of good local red wine with it. For dessert, they shared a bowl of lovely big red grapes, split the bill and remembered to take the receipt, and walked back home feeling pleasantly full.
When they reached the door of the pensione, Debbie checked her watch. It was only ten o’clock and, in English time, that was merely nine o’clock. She glanced at Alice. ‘Shall we head for the centre of town and have a drink before bed? This time, I’m paying.’
‘That’s the best idea you’ve had all day, Debs. Definitely.’
With the aid of the map Ronaldo had given them, they made their way through the increasingly narrow streets, having to squeeze out of the way of cars and scooters as they did so. Most of the taxis appeared to be virtually silent electrical cars and they weren’t surprised to find that a lot of them had fitted bleepers to warn pedestrians of their arrival. Even so, they had to stay alert and it was a relief to reach the pedestrian zone around the Duomo, although the armed soldiers and police posted in the square were a sad sign of the times.
They mingled with the crowds, keeping a wary hand on their bags, listening to the countless different languages being spoken around them, and looking up in wonder at the magnificent façade of the Duomo on one side and the Baptistery’s golden doors on the other. To Debbie, it was like seeing the pages of a guidebook laid out before her and she was greatly impressed.
They gradually worked their way around the cathedral until they were right at the rear of it. Here they found a table in a pavement café and she ordered two glasses of Prosecco. One thing led to another and they ended up ordering two wonderful ice cream sundaes as well, although the prices indicated on the menus were not for the faint-hearted.
Alice did her best to calm Debbie’s scruples. ‘We may never come back again, Debs. We owe it to ourselves to make sure we make this visit memorable.’ She was checking out the nearby tables and her eyes had alighted on three tall, suntanned and muscular men drinking beer.
‘Now I know what could make this night even more memorable…’ She glanced at Debbie and giggled at the look of disapproval on her face. ‘It’s all right, Debs, I’m just joking. I don’t think I could handle even just one of them after that meal and all this ice cream.’
Debbie grinned back at her. The temperature, even at this time of night, was still high, but the stifling heat they had experienced upon their arrival in Florence that afternoon had moderated Both of them were just wearing thin tops and shorts and they now felt more comfortable. She sat back and watched the never-ending stream of humanity walk by, trying to guess the nationalities of the people before they came close enough for her to hear what language they were speaking. She had reached seventeen different languages when a tall, Italian-looking man walked past, and she sat bolt upright. For a moment, she really thought it might be him. Could it be Pierluigi? But he was supposed to be in Boston.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Alice.
‘You know who that guy reminds me of?’
‘Yes, I know. I was just thinking the same thing.’
‘Mind you, if it is him, he’s grown that moustache pretty quickly.’ As Alice was speaking, the man glanced sideways for a second and Debbie immediately realised that this was a completely different person. Her pulse began to slow and she turned towards her friend with a smile.
‘Well, at least I wasn’t the only one to be seeing things.’
‘I wonder how his interview on Monday’s going to go.’ She glanced at Debbie. ‘Do you hope he gets it?’
Debbie nodded. ‘Of course I do – for his sake at least. I suppose if I’m in Cambridge, it doesn’t make a lot of difference whether he’s in Italy or the States.’
‘Give or take a few hundred pounds extra on the air fare.’
‘I know.’ She turned to Alice. ‘It was always destined for disaster, Al. We both knew that when we started it. Like I say, we’re worlds apart, even without him going off to the States. It was an amazing week, but, in all probability, there’s not really any future in it.’
‘Who knows? Maybe he’ll stay in Florence and you really can get a teaching job here, so as to be with him.’ She caught Debbie’s eye. ‘I wouldn’t want to lose you, but from what you’ve been saying about student numbers back home…’
‘I’m not sure that’s going to be so easy. I found a good number of schools listed here, but nothing much in the way of situations vacant.’
‘It’s still August, Debs. Didn’t your Italian teacher say everywhere closes down in Italy in August? You wait. There’ll probably be loads of jobs appearing over the next few weeks when it all starts up again after the holidays. So what’s the plan for tomorrow? Checking out schools or are you still thinking about your spot?’
‘Schools, definitely, but first, I think I’m going to give it one more go. It should be cool enough early on for me to walk up to Piazzale Michelangelo, rather than taking the bus. You never know, I may still happen upon the place from my dreams.’ Deep down, she felt pretty sure she was only kidding herself, but she felt she had to give it one last try. ‘But you don’t need to come unless you feel like it. Besides,’ she grinned at Alice, ‘if Ronaldo’s on the morning shift, you might be otherwise engaged.’
Alice shook her head. ‘Too hot, too much food, too tired. No, a man-free weekend is probably a good idea. I’ll let you know in the morning whether I feel like climbing the hill with you.’ She finished her drink. ‘You know what? I feel quite tired.’
‘We both need a good night’s sleep. And tomorrow evening, by the way, I’m taking you out for dinner, seeing as it’s my birthday. My treat.’
‘That sounds brilliant. Any ideas about a restaurant?’
‘Yes, I have, actually, but I won’t tell you. It can be a surprise.’
Chapter 5
Next morning, Debbie woke up early, feeling rested and refreshed after sleeping remarkably soundly. Alice was still fast asleep in the other bed so she crept quietly into the bathroom, showered, and changed without waking her. She had an initial moment of confusion when hot water started coming out of the tap marked with a C. Only then did she remember that C stood for caldo, hot and F for freddo, cold. When she was ready, she let herself out silently so as not to disturb Alice, and went through to the breakfast room. Two cups of coffee, two glasses of orange juice and two croissants filled with apricot jam, and she was ready for the day.
She went out past the reception desk that was now staffed by a matronly lady, reflecting that this boded well for Alice’s self-imposed temporary vow of abstinence. Outside, she checked her watch and saw that it was still only a quarter past seven. She really had got up early. It wasn’t cold, but it was certainly much cooler than the previous afternoon and evening. The sky was a clear, cloudless blue so doubtless the temperature would soon rise again in the course of the morning. But at least for now, she was reassured that she should be able to climb the hill on the other side of the river without too much discomfort.
Apart from teams of street sweepers and noisy little trucks going round washing the streets with whirring brushes, there weren’t many other people about this early on a Sunday morning. Debbie was able to make her way with ease up to the cathedral, finding that it looked even more impressive in the daylight – the early morning sun reflecting off the shiny white marble, highlighting the exquisite sculptures set into the façade and the bands of green and red stone cutting across it at regular intervals. She remembered Pierluigi’s description of it and had to agree with him. It really was amazing. After standing in silent appreciation for several minutes, she crossed the piazza and followed the little arrows along the main shopping streets until she came to the Ponte Vecchio.
Debbie had often seen photos of the Ponte Vecchio – probably one of th
e most photographed bridges in the world – leading over the river Arno. She could see that, as well as serving as a means of getting across the river, the bridge was also a shopping mall in miniature, with tiny shops lining both sides of it. At this time of the morning these shops, mostly selling jewellery, were all still boarded up, but she could imagine how busy this thoroughfare would become later in the day. Above the shops to the left of her was a long line of windows at first-floor level, protected by hefty iron gratings. This, she knew, was the fortified passage that had been built to serve as a private walkway for the dukes of Florence from the Palazzo Vecchio across to the Pitti Palace on the other side of the river.
But she didn’t stop to consider the history of the bridge or to admire the view up and down the Arno from there. She had other things on her mind this morning. She turned left at the end of the bridge and walked parallel to the river until she saw a sign to the right pointing up the hill towards Piazzale Michelangelo. This started as a gently sloping road, leading to one of the old gates in the original walls of the town and, beyond that, it then became rapidly steeper until it turned into a wide flight of stone steps leading ever upwards.
Debbie climbed at a steady pace, trying to count the steps as she did so, but she lost count somewhere around a hundred. However, even with a pause for a breather halfway, she was delighted to find herself at the top much sooner than she had expected. She turned left and walked along the road as far as the terrace where she and Alice had fed the little sparrow the previous day. She went across to the railings, breathing hard, but not too badly out of breath. All the cycling she had been doing in Cambridge had obviously been to good effect.
At this time of the morning, she was the only person here and, for a few minutes, she found herself able to relax and survey the full beauty of Florence without an accompanying background hubbub of voices. It was a lovely, still morning and the heat haze hadn’t yet built up. Opposite her, in the far distance, the outline of the tree-clad hills and the mountains beyond was crystal clear. She stood there for a few minutes, breathing in the view and the atmosphere until she was disturbed by the grating noise of metal chairs being pulled across the paving slabs behind her. She turned to see the staff of the café starting to get ready for the daily onslaught. Spotting the waiter who had served them the previous day, on impulse, she went over to him.
Dreaming of Florence Page 5